I am a closet bi sissy TV/CD living just south of London: 69, but can pass for a lot less. Married to a disapproving wife, so dressing at home is verboten and I have to be discrete meeting others, usually having to invent an excuse I’m somewhere else, when I'm not. Obviously cannot accommodate but happy to travel to London or the Home Counties, right down to the South Coast. I dressed regularly at London's Philbeach Hotel before it closed in 2008 keeping my clothes (size 18) there in a rented locker and made use of its make-up service, so leading a double life was then easy. Loved dressing as an elegant secretary - everybody said I had fantastic legs. Now I have nowhere sensible to store clothes and the only dressing I do now is in my wife’s underwear when she’s away, which is not often. This is incredibly frustrating as I would love to resurrect Caroline in all her glory, but I still enjoy the company of those who do dress and bi or gay admirers. Please note all photos of me fully dressed were taken over twenty five years ago.

My painstakingly assembled wardrobe (including an expensive dressmaker made mother-of-the-bride outfit) was lost when the Philbeach abruptly closed. I now do Sweet Wednesdays occasionally (which is seedy but very central in London) and Lovejoys in Sutton, (which is out in the suburbs but fantastic), attending both as an “involuntary” admirer.

Being a professional person before I retired, discretion is essential. Whilst being gay is now trendy, positively fashionable, and transgenderism is becoming so, “vanilla” crossdressing remains the poor relation of gender fluidity and is still privately sniggered at. Gays in successive Cabinets have happily come out, but so far no crossdressers - and I don’t believe that’s because there aren’t any. Gender fluidity is OK, except for men wishing to remain men wearing women’s underwear: the social convention somehow remains that the joy of lingerie is for females only.

I do message other UK dressers whose profile suggests we are similar and, if you live in or near London, hope we can maybe meet (publicly and platonically initially) and see what develops, if anything. I am always curious to know how and why other dressers first started. I find reading first dressing experience stories both very evocative and erotic. Always happy to swap my story with yours. I prefer older dressers, 50+, and have a soft spot for girls with glasses and girls who are good conversationalists. I love photos of facially attractive (I prize fabulous eyes and/or good bone structure) CDs ordinarily but convincingly dressed - like the not unattractive girl next door who’s aged well.

I first started dressing up in Nov 1962, aged only 6, not certain why or why then, but very glad I did. My mother was very attractive and worked as a secretary, so gloss and glamour was part of her job description. She dressed expensively, right down to her underwear. The elegance of her clothes and appearance, relative to other women, were not lost on me. I was left on my own at home for about an hour, long enough to try on a pair of her sky blue high waisted nylon knickers with horizontal rows of white frills. My mother never shut the toilet door fully when she peed and I’d furtively watched her sat on the loo with her dress and petticoat hitched up and her knickers pulled taut across her knees. I was fascinated by all the different colours and frills of her underwear. I’d once seen the knickers I was now wearing pulled taut across her knees which lent incredible intimacy to me now wearing them. The knickers were so exciting in stark contrast to my dull boring white cotton underpants, and I admired myself in the mirror. They were too big for me but I loved the feel. I was particularly fascinated by the “layers” I knew my mother wore underneath - petticoat over knickers over girdle - so I assembled a “layer" to put on, wriggling into an open bottomed girdle, pulling up the same pair of knickers and then pulling a petticoat over my head. OMG. Once I had entered that out-of-bounds Alice-in-Wonderland world of femininity I was away-with-the-fairies, light headed and knees weak. I slipped into a pair of my mother's heels: they were too big for me but I walked around the house swaying my hips, enjoying my limp wrists. I triggered my first dry orgasm. Indescribable ecstasy. I've never done drugs but this must have been the equivalent of a kilo of cocaine. But like drugs, there were terrible withdrawal symptoms when I couldn't dress and was back in the regime of a boy's dull white cotton pants. I felt angry, frustrated and almost suicidal about not having been born a girl, overcome by the emotional confusion of realising I was a girl trapped inside a boy's body. I think if I was a 6 year old today in 2025 instead of 1962, I would want to transition. The worst thing was having nobody to open to about it. I was particularly envious of my mother: in my then innocence at 6 years old I thought my mother had a willy so assumed my mother was subsumed by the same ecstasy wearing her knickers, her willy stiff all day, 365 days/year. I wished I’d been born a girl, allowing me to wear frilly pretty coloured nylon knickers. When I learned girls did not have a willy, I wanted mine to be chopped off. I would stand in front of a mirror naked and tuck my willy between the top of my thighs so it looked like I didn't have one.

Being an only child and left on my own at home a lot - the nanny state had yet to arrive in the 1960s, thank God - I had lots of opportunity to dress and did so whenever I could until my early teens. My dry orgasms when dressed were addictive. I feigned illness to have days off school so that I was home alone all day. I would dress as my mother in multi-layers including a dress, coat and heels, stand over a mirror on the floor admiring all the layers, lie on the bed and gently hump masturbate myself for hours, triggering a dry orgasm every so often. Once I put all her available underwear on simultaneously - several girdles, twenty plus pairs of knickers and a dozen or so petticoats, a wonderfully indulgent nylon orgy. Tights, which my mother started wearing in the late 1960s, aroused me to new sexual highs with their clinging encasement. The problem I had previously wearing my mother's knickers was they were too big for me and slid down unless I held them up but this was solved by tights, which held them in place, freeing my hands: plus I could see the knickers through them underneath when I admired myself in the mirror. My mother threw pairs of laddered tights out in the rubbish and I recognised I could “re-cycle” them without her realising. I even started to cut the legs off, creating knickers made from tights, which were seventh heaven to wear. I was remarkably innovative in pursuit of new sexual highs. I imitated my mother going to the loo and then being as exaggerated as I could hitching my knickers back up, wriggling my thighs and bottom and finally bending my knees so that the gusset was firmly pressed against my willy, then allowing my petticoat and dress to fall back into place. I was aware of the need to excite all five senses. The touch of the nylon against my body, the sight of myself in the mirror, the sound of my pee jet hitting the porcelain as I sat on the loo with my skirt and petticoat hitched up and knickers round my knees copying my mother, the smell of my mother's Avon Unforgettable perfume and the taste of her lipstick. I looked at myself in the mirror as I applied lipstick and then rubbed my lips together, just as my mother did. The taste of lipstick is gorgeous. Then I got into mix and match: I stole a pair of a great aunt's celanese directoire knickers which were voluminous. She wore a girdle and stockings which didn't do them justice. So I smuggled them home to be worn under my mother's tights. Wow.

I wanted to impersonate my mother as closely as possible but was acutely aware that I needed a wig to do so. Admiring myself in the mirror was a key part of the sexual arousal and without a wig I just wasn’t feminine enough, despite my androgynous looks. With all my saved up pocket money, I eventually plucked up the courage to go to Woolworths and buy a wig. It was cheap and tarty but the colour was about right. When I looked in the mirror, a girl stared back. Sadly, soon after in my early teens, my feet became too big for my mother's shoes and my orgasms became wet, which made dressing messy, time consuming to clean up with an increased risk of leaving tell-tale signs and a much deeper sense of shame and remorse. Fortunately, my homosexuality started kicking in about the same time and I discovered the joys of other boys and older men. And, before you ask, only "O" never "A". The sexual high of sucking my first willy was similar to the first time I dressed: away with the fairies, light headed and weak knees, except my orgasm was wet, very wet. I soon realised that the ultimate would be the double whammy of sucking a cock when dressed and eventually I did it, 2+2=5. Never have I so wanted to be a girl, able to lie back, pull my knickers down, spread my legs and take a big throbbing stiff willy inside me. I was now even more envious of girls and women with their tingling clits, slippery labia and vaginas being penetrated.

I still love 1960s undies - high waisted nylon knickers, petticoats and conical bras and I am mad about tan tights.

Please message me. I'd love to hear from you. I separately trade as surreycaroline on both TVChix and on xHamster.